Cooling the Flame
by Uudam
Summary: Elsa's spirit visits her grandson in a dream, giving him solace and counsel as he struggles with his pyrokinetic powers, hot temper and rebellious manner.


**Cooling the Flame**

Rickard burned with anger and shame. Literally.

The 12 year old prince of Arendelle panted and fumed like a bull. His breath expelled in explosive puffs of blue flame as he aggressively scrubbed the floor. He bristled like an angry dog, his body engulfed with the heat of rage inside and out. He gripped the handle of the mop with numb white knuckles, threatening to snap it in half. A string of curses ran through his head. It almost slipped through his gritted teeth.

'This isn't fair! Damn it damn it damn it!'

Rickard hated being the youngest, the smallest, the least important. The only part he didn't hate about himself was his power to create fire, which made him a handful and a nuisance since the day he was born. He felt like the hot potato everyone kept tossing around and nobody wanted. That was one of his nicknames: Hot Potato. Though he hated the name, there was truth to it.

Out of the 8 royal children born to King Fenris of Arendelle and his wife, Rickard was the only one bestowed with magical powers. Despite his parents' best efforts, he became wild and unruly. They hardly had time to deal with his antics as they ruled Arendelle. His oldest siblings, either warriors, scholars or royal administrators, had better things to do than to play with him.

Rickard began to get desperate. If he didn't get the love he needed, he wanted attention. Even if it got him into big trouble. He'd set things on fire; not with enough scale and malice to cause serious damage, but enough to have fun and rile up his family. Typical of a boy his age, he developed a habit of peeking on girls (highborn and commonfolk alike) as they bathed. He was good at sneaking around, but one day he got careless.

His older sister caught him. She lashed at Rickard with verbal abuse and pulled at his ear so hard he still marveled at the fact it was still intact. But that wasn't the worst part. With a disproving frown and great disappointment, King Fenris punished his youngest child by making him clean the armory.

Rickard had no choice but to swallow back angry tears and relent. His royal blood didn't protect him from his father's decree.

"Learn to accept the consequences," King Fenris had said with stern finality. "I will not stand to have my son babied and spoiled because he is a prince. It's time to take responsibility and grow up."

Water sloshed from the bucket, splashing everywhere as Rickard plunged the mop through with force. He already finished polishing the weapons; bandages covering his cut fingers served as the evidence. Rickard ignored the stings as he worked on the floor. He looked up and stopped when the door opened.

The King of Arendelle, dark, powerful and imposing, stepped in. "That's enough for the day, Rickard." His voice was heavy with weariness. "Your grandfather is visiting from Asgard tomorrow. Go to bed early and get plenty of rest. I want you on your best behavior in front of my father."

"But I haven't finished cleaning."

"I'll have servants take care of the rest." Fenris's ice-cold gaze softened as he noticed the gauze on his son's hands. "I think you've been embarrassed enough. You have my permission to leave, Rickard."

"Thank you, Father," the boy muttered.

He made for the door without meeting the king's eyes. He made no boast about his presence as he made his way through the castle. If his sister caught sight of him, he'd never hear the end of it.

Rickard thought about his grandfather as he entered his room. He hadn't seen the former king since he was a toddler. Though Rickard had played with flames to impress his grandfather, Loki hardly acknowledged him with a glance during his brief visit to Arendelle. As years passed he came to resent his grandfather, wondering why he of all people acted so dismissive towards him.

'I'm the only grandchild who inherited some of his magic. And doesn't he cause trouble just like me? He's the _God_ of Mischief! Why did he treat me like I was invisible?' The boy scowled. 'I don't want to see him tomorrow.'

That night Rickard couldn't lie still and rest. Humiliation from the punishment still made his blood boil. He tossed and turned, his body tangled in the blankets. He pressed his face against the pillow, but forcing a state of drowsiness proved futile. His anger gradually became fatigue and Rickard slipped into a deep sleep. He seemed to be suspended in neither time or space, only darkness. He felt so alone.

Rickard held out his hand to conjure fire. There was a burst of sparks, followed by a steadily burning ball of flame. He smiled at the glowing light. He always liked blue fire over the usual orange. Blue was hotter, stronger...more _beautiful_.

Then another light shone. The boy's eyes widened. It disappeared as fast as it had appeared. He squinted in the darkness, trying to find it and convince himself he wasn't crazy. Like holding a torch, Rickard held his hand aloft for the blue flame to penetrate the darkness. He saw it again. A pale blue light. It was weak at first, pulsating dimly in the distance. It swelled to a brighter glow and came closer, making Rickard throw a free hand across his eyes to shield them.

He gasped as snow and shards of ice came out of nowhere to swirl chaotically around this glow. It became a woman. Or the pale, spirit-like image of one. Her beauty took his breath away. She hardly looked older than her early twenties. Her gown, wraithlike and delicate, framed her slender figure. He stood rooted on the spot, though in the dreamscape no physical plane existed.

He glared and put on a brave face. "Who are you? Are you a ghost coming to take me away?"

His 5th brother used to scare him with stories of ghosts who kidnapped naughty children. Rickard was too old for tales now. Or so he kept telling himself. As the only magically gifted child, it was only natural that Rickard still possessed a vivid imagination and a hidden love for stories. He believed in them, and feared some too. In this strange realm of dreams, one can never be too careful.

The beautiful young woman made a soft smile. "Now why would I do such a thing? Don't worry...I'm not a malevolent spirit. You and I are much closer than you might know."

"Prove it."

"You are Rickard, 8th in line to the throne of Arendelle. The last son of my first son, but no less important."

Rickard blinked in surprise and lost his suspicious frown. "That's a first. Most people forget who I am. My brothers and sisters like to think I'm not even here."

She tilted her head a little, looking serenely thoughtful. "When you say that, you remind me of someone I used to know."

"Who?"

The woman shook her head. "Never mind."

For a few moments, Rickard's eyes riveted at what looked like crystal adornments woven into her long braid.

A smile graced her thin, soft lips. "I remember each and every member of my family. Even when I never had the chance to see you when I was still alive...I'd never forget you, Rickard."

The boy furrowed his brow. "Fenris, my father...he's your son? Then that means..." He gaped at her in astonishment. "You're my grandmother...Queen Elsa!" The renowned Snow Queen, loved and respected by all for her power and regality. The one who once plagued Arendelle with the threat of eternal winter, though only by accident and redeemed herself with years of a prosperous and generous reign. Here she was in the flesh. Or spirit.

Until now, Rickard never met her. Elsa had died of old age, years before he was born. Fenris, the oldest of her 3 children, took over as king. This, and the death of his wife, prompted Loki to leave Arendelle and return to Asgard.

Rickard bit his lip and looked away. "Calling you Grandmother is weird. You're pretty." The loveliness of her face, and the curves of her hips and thighs, proved to be very distracting.

'I just got punished for this...what the hell...'

Rickard blushed madly and felt hot everywhere. He wasn't supposed to feel this way towards his own grandmother! No wonder why Loki, once an arrogant man who thought himself a god, had been so smitten by Elsa, a mortal woman.

"Aren't you supposed to be old and wrinkly all over?" he burst out. Then he instantly shut his mouth.

Rickard expected her to berate him for his rudeness, that he should act more like a prince who respected his elder and less like an impudent brat. To his great surprise, she laughed. It was a gentle sound, pleasant to his ears and unlike the laughs from those who usually did it to look down on him.

"Like father, like son," she said fondly. "Though Fenris often acted before he thought when he was your age." Elsa briefly looked down at her shimmering, translucent body. "The soul knows no age or suffering in the afterlife," she continued. "My body may have been old and frail upon my passing, and worn away to dust by now...but you and I share a bond beyond the limits of the physical world."

"Because we both use magic?"

"That's part of it." Elsa took a step forward, a look of concern plain on her face. "Rickard, I came to you because I sensed you were greatly troubled." She reached out to touch his chest. Right over his heart. Even with a shirt on, he felt the coolness of her pale hand. He didn't shy away. Only shivered. "There's a lot of anger and resentment burning inside you. And I sense something else beneath all that...sadness. You need to let it go, Rickard. It's not good for you to bottle up that negativity. You will grow up hard and bitter...and one day, that shell will crack and give out in the most painful way."

"I _do_ let it go," he insisted.

"But in the right way?"

Rickard sullenly cast his eyes down to stare at the slow, hypnotic undulating of her gown. After a time he finally said, "No...I don't." He looked up and furrowed his brow in frustration at her. "How do you know what I'm going through? You weren't born the last, and fire isn't something I can just 'let go.' Besides, I can control my fire just fine. Even when I lose my temper, I'm careful not to hurt anyone by accident. I'm not scared of my powers."

"No, your problem isn't fear of fire. It's a fear of something else. You're like a little flame in the dark, scared of getting blown out and being forgotten. So you act up in rebellion, trying to get noticed and acknowledged in some way." Elsa had no accusation in her voice, only gentle understanding. Rickard stiffened. But there was no use hiding anything from the spirit of his grandmother.

He bit his lip. "I...I feel unwanted. I'm no good at anything, except making trouble and making a bad name for myself. I know I'm not supposed to act that way...but I feel like I don't have any choice." Rickard clenched his fist, sending little blue sparks flying. "I'm sick of it. I...I _hate_ myself."

Elsa put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't say that," she said gently. "Problems with my own powers may have been different from yours...but I see something in you that I once struggled with. Make peace with yourself, Rickard. Then you can make peace with your family. You told me that you can control your fire. I believe you. But I think you need to control the fire inside, as well."

She tipped his chin up with her fingers so that he met her gaze. Her eyes bore wisdom beyond her perceived appearance. "Just as fear kept me from controlling my powers, anger at people and yourself is keeping you from controlling yours. Learn to cool that flame, Rickard."

His head jerked in a small nod, letting her words sink in. "O-okay..."

Then she tapped a finger on his nose and a playful smile broke the tranquility of her face. "And no more peeking at girls."

Rickard couldn't help but laugh. "I won't. I promise." He felt his throat swell, and he tried not to cry. "I wish you were still alive. I need someone like you in my life."

"But I _am_ with you. In your heart, and in your dreams." Her hand touched his chest. "If you ever feel angry, hurt or lonely, just remember me. I'll be the ice that will soothe whatever hurts."

Elsa pulled him into a hug. In her loving embrace, Rickard finally broke down and let his tears run free. "Thank you, Grandmother. I'll do what you say. I'll try to be good from now on."

"I know you will." Elsa ran a hand through her grandson's unkempt black hair and planted a kiss on his forehead.

Suddenly Rickard remembered as he slightly pulled back to meet her gaze. "Did you know I'm going to see Grandfather tomorrow?"

Sorrow glazed over her eyes and her smile faded. "All these years after my death he hasn't slept well, I can tell. I try to reach him through his dreams, but his mind and heart can't get any rest. " The love in her eyes was so soft and tender that it made the boy's heart ache. Her voice softened to a cracked whisper. "When you see your grandfather, tell him I love him very much. Tell him I'll be waiting when he can find peace."

Rickard nodded with resolution. "I will, Grandmother. You can count on it!"

Warm tears and a soft smile lingered on the boy's face as he continued to sleep. Elsa was the guiding figure he never knew he needed. For once he felt proud of being a member of his family, to be connected with her. He figured that the least he could do, and the first thing he did to reform, was help his grandmother be with the love of her life again.

* * *

_This was originally intended to be a oneshot, but I'm thinking of posting a quick chapter on Rickard meeting Loki._


End file.
